Page 149 of Coach
He winced.
I froze.
Then, without warning, he pulled me all the way into him until my cock slammed into the back wall of some barrier deep inside him.
“Oh, fuck,” was all I said.
“Stay right there,” he whispered, one hand reached up to stroke my cheek, his eyes boring into mine with such heat, such intensity . . . such unbounded love. “You’re mine, Shane Douglas. I claim you . . . and I give myself to you.”
I stared down at that beautiful man and knewwonder filled my eyes.
Hell, it filled my chest and heart and soul, too.
“You’re fucking mine,” were the words that came out as I pulled my hips back and slid into him again.
And again.
And again.
By the time we finished, and Mateo was filled with my life, we were both coated in sweat and gym filth and the glorious stench of sex. Mateo didn’t let me pull out; rather, he held me close atop him, bade me stay inside him and not move. He said he wanted to be one person with me for as long as we could, and I couldn’t imagine anywhere else I’d rather be.
Too few minutes passed before Mateo stirred.
“I have to get to the pizza party. They’ll lose their minds if I don’t show up, at least for a while.”
I wiggled my hips, causing my dick to throb inside him.
“Not fair.” He grinned against my cheek.
“Never said I played fair.” I grinned back. “Want some company? I could eat some pizza.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Only if we resume this exact position at home afterward.”
I slipped out and planted a kiss on his lips. “Whatever Coach wants, Coach gets.”
Chapter 48
Mateo
The gym was packed.
Not just full—packed.
Standing-room-only kind of packed.
Fans leaned against every rail, filled every stairwell, clung to the topmost rows like their lives depended on it. The air vibrated with noise, whistles and shoes squeaking, competing pep bands blaring from each corner, and the low, electric hum of tension.
I stood at the edge of our bench, my arms crossed so tightly I could feel my shoulder blades digging into each other. My foot bounced like it had a mind of its own, and I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. I could hear myself barking instructions, calling out switches, shouting encouragement—but it all felt distant, like my mouth was on autopilot while the rest of me was stuck inside my head, screaming.
The game shouldn’t have been close.
We were the number one seed.
We’d prepared, trained, drilled the plays until my players could run them in their sleep.
And yet . . . we were scrapping, hustling for every possession, missing layups, turning the ball over like it was radioactive.
God, free throws, I thought as another one clanged off the rim.
